Aphrodite’s Child

at the tender age of ten
come the attentions of the men
merry monkeys who endeavoured to appear innocent
as they praised her parents for producing
“such a beautiful child!”
& her parents - wishing not to appear too proud
responded with “she pretty, but she wild!”

bony bare-legged black boys
made her gifts of their most-prized toys
& watery-eyed white boys wistfully wished
for a way to get her alone
(they wanted no witnesses when they asked to walk her home)
moody & mesmerizing
teasing & tantalizing
fully aware that she’s everybody’s baby
neither affirmative nor negative, always a murmured “maybe”

the boy next door is on the precipice of manhood
know-it-all 19 to her tentative 13
& goddess status is no guarantee
against infallibility
fooled by flowers & flattery she falls from the pedestal
eager to believe this is love
(unable to perceive it’s merely lust)
too soon she is forlorn & forgotten
her love reduced to ashes & dust

the powerful patriarch plays with thoughts of slaughter
of the upstart who dared to seduce his daughter
quietly the queen mother dissuades him
using her womanly wiles to persuade him
to hunt for an Hephaestus for their errant Aphrodite:
“lest this attention make her vainglorious,
before she develops appetites notorious!
already she’s caroused in the conjugal bed –
to save her face (& ours) she must be wed!”

the peeved papa searches for a suitor well-bred & well-read,
one who’ll welcome such a treasure to his lonely bachelor’s bed
still grieving, before she can find her voice
the goddess is girded to a man not of her choice
a slovenly adoring ass, incapable of original thought
like Judas, her father sold –
like a slave, she is bought

despite her outrage at her father’s wrong
her sense of filial duty remains strong
she decides to make a go of this life
& at first she is a wonderful wife
she cooks/she cleans/she hides her gloom
a lady in company, a whore in their bedroom
of course he’s happy with his lot
but she’s not – she needs another
& so determines to take a lover
in a greasy garage with oil on the floor
she stumbles on the key to desire’s door
fully equipped with all the arrogance of youth
he’s self-important & uncouth
yet free from all taint of sin, & - blessed bonus! –
a veritable virgin
her stars are lucky (or the gods are kind)
so without examining sub or conscious mind
eyes shining, lips swollen & wet,
she decisively draws him into her net

& he is willing, & he adores her
in abject abasement he grovels before her
in his eyes a kind of madness burns
but before she knows it, the tables have turned
now she’s hypnotized/mesmerized
a body enslaved & paralyzed
a heart beating hard with love & trust
a woman laid low on the alter of lust

her adoration makes her crazy
the constant worship makes him lazy
but he’s there:
to her & for her,
a ballsy sibyl that can do no wrong
seducing her & swamping her
with love’s sensual song

she is swept away from her stupid spouse
from father & family &
the hated husband’s house
o infidel! o infamy!
poisoned by passion & pride
convinced of invincibility
as long as he’s at her side
the world is theirs, for so she arranges
then Chance erupts, & everything changes

into their interlude falls cold white snow
& he dances with a demon
in a place she dare not go
he dances while she dreams & schemes
of a way to win him back,
but the demon brings a Darkness
that forebodes a future black

thunder & lightning, all that is frightening
is passed through the end of a phone
snow surrounds, then topples
Eros from his throne
the sea rages & swells
the sacred shell shatters
Death rescinds love
now her life does not matter

lamenting & lost
in a tempest she is tossed
& she drinks as she cries
she screams/she shrieks/she sighs
in vain she tries to understand
why the gods have withdrawn their hands
the Muses warn she must repent
before the Parent Gods relent

doomed by love
damned by her loss
she flees Olympus
the last line is crossed
so she wanders with whispering voices in her head
capering cacophonous demi-gods
on her journey to the Dead

bleeding/bruised/broken
she wanders without will
seeking potions sweet & noxious
to render heart & body still
a tightly entwined rope
around her slender saddened neck
surely somewhere, something or someone
can put this grief in check

in her woe she is wanton
open to forces beyond her ken
so she roams, restless & reckless
lying with many men
some are nice (& some are not)
most are total shits
something better soon must beckon
so one day she simply quits

she runs/she hides
she makes a brand new home
& her eyes reveal acceptance
of a life that’s lived alone
she buries herself with Art & books
her new life is quiet & pure
to strangers passing on the street
she appears serene & sure
& other lonely souls believe she’s found a magic cure

eyes downcast or hidden
she lives this way for many years
a helpful & happy exterior
swimming in solitary tears
& she dare not admit (especially to herself)
that life & love are passing
while she dwells on this dusty shelf
then one day the gods relent at last
& send her one who obliterates the past

on a hot & hazy morning
sun shining in her eyes
the Divinity appears behind her
transported from the skies
he smiles at her, & she is bewitched
he speaks & she listens, totally transfixed
his demeanor is somehow both gentle & grand
awed & acquiescent, she allows him to claim her hand

he guides her to the garden she’d created for herself
& there he does things to her
that divests the dust from the shelf
her body is a blank book that he writes in
her mind is a fountain that he delights in
then he tells her that he loves her
his voice confident & strong
the words deliver her from the darkness
that has hidden her heart for so long

the chains have been cut
the past has been banished
the monsters of memory that hounded her have vanished
all that once hurt her he has abolished
the demons that dogged her he destroyed & demolished
the goddess has been restored
no longer afraid or alone
in the heart of the Divinity
Aphrodite’s child has found a home.

copyright © 2007 KPMCL

Aphrodite, innocence, tantalizing, mesmerizing, goddess, deathless, Sappho, temptress, adoration, Olympus, Divinity, Ahrodite's Child

dark wonder

a dark wonder
manifest in verse
life as a blessing
love as a curse
hopes that curdle
like spoiled cream
depression devours
every dream
lawless / legless
tortured thoughts shifting
vainly seeking
light uplifting
a buzzing noise
a heart like stone
sweaty / sleepless
nights alone

copyright © 2008 KPMCL

dark wonder, nights, depression, thoughts, love

They've killed one of our own!!

Well, here we go again: Police officer slain in Philadelphia. The officer, who was forty (40) years old, was gunned down in a bank robbery on Saturday morning, May 3, 2008. The manhunt had spread to New Jersey by Saturday evening. Mayor Michael Nutter has put into effect a thirty-day mourning period. He said that this is a tragedy for the police force and for all of Philadelphia’s citizens.

I’m not angry, once again, as a result of the city suggesting that we hold a thirty (30) day mourning period for the slain officer. I’m not angry, once again, because a manhunt has spread to New Jersey. Of course, it is a great tragedy for the family of the officer, and I am tired of hearing about policemen being killed in the line of duty.

Was disgruntles me is the audacity that this city has for placing the value of the lives of a police officer over and above the lives of its citizens. In 2008, there were 392 homicides, of which, one was a police officer. Of all of those murders, only one manhunt went into effect: the one carried out for the suspected killer of the policeman. In that situation, as well as the current one, the powers that be have the same tired statement to present: They’ve killed one of our own and we will not stop until the suspect is in custody.

One of the first things out of the Mayor’s and Police Chief’s mouths is that these criminals are so ruthless that they will shoot at and kill a police officer. The problem with that statement is that the policemen signed on for that duty. It should very well be a policeman that is fired upon rather than a citizen. A citizen is unarmed and did not sign on to fight criminals. Therefore, it should be more of a shock that criminals would shoot citizens than policemen. That statement is always followed by “They’ve killed one of our own and we will not stop until the suspect is in custody”.

Where is the manhunt for the suspects in the murders of the other 391 homicides? Why is it such a tragedy that a policeman was killed, but, just another day in the ghetto when a citizen is killed? Why is it that the police will search non-stop for a cop-killer, but end a search the next day for the killer of an average citizen? Why is it such an awful and despicable thing for a criminal to shoot at a police officer, but a humdrum event when a citizen is shot?

Now, it’s 2008, and it’s all begun anew. Another tragedy has taken place – the death of a police officer in the line of duty, killed by a ruthless bank robber. It is truly a tragedy, and my condolences go out to the family. However, I am sick and tired of hearing that the city feels that the loss of a policeman’s life is a far greater loss than that of an ordinary citizen. I’m tired of the streets filled with police cars when a policeman gets shot, yet devoid of the same when a citizen is shot. When will the city realize that a citizen’s life is just as valuable as a policeman’s? When will the police begin to pursue a criminal who has harmed a citizen with the same fervor as when a policeman has been harmed? When will the hypocrisy end?

Did I happen to mention that of the 392 homicides in 2007, three-hundred-eleven (311) were of African-American decent. . . ordinary citizens?

This is blackstarr saying “Vive La Renaissance!”

Blackstarr52@gmail.com

copyright © 2008 blackstarr

Renaissance, New Millennium, policeman killed, Chief Ramsey, one of our own, Stop and frisk, officer down, Michael Nutter, homicides, black and hispanic neighborhoods

Supreme Discrimination

I heard it first from Afro-American Writer in her weekly wrap-up of the news. I then checked out the information that she presented. It is more than reasonable to conclude that Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia is a dangerous man. Unfortunately, he is not alone. He has an entire panel of cronies, er . . . justices at his side. THEY are a dangerous team! There was a decision made on April 28, 2008 that upheld an earlier decision by a lower court to require Indiana residents to provide photo-identification in order to vote. The vote was split 6-3. Justices Samuel Alito, Antonin Scalia, Clarence Thomas, John Paul Stevens, John Roberts and Anthony Kennedy voted to uphold the lower court decision. Dissenting were Supreme Court Justices Stephen Breyer, Ruth Bader Ginsburg and David Souter. While the state of Indiana offers free photo identification, residents are first required to provide proof of residence. The Indiana Primary will be held this coming Tuesday, May 6, 2008. Is there time enough for the elderly, minorities, and the poor to obtain the proper identification by May 6^th? It’s doubtful.

How many of us actually know how much power The Supreme Court holds? When a position becomes available and a candidate is offered, how many of us get involved? It’s time that we understand the inner workings of the court. We need to understand what consequences arise from the decisions made by our justices. We need to understand that the decisions made by these justices, for the most part, are the key elements of the disenfranchisement of the elderly, the poor, and minorities.

The first thing that needs to be understood is that the justices who make the decisions that affect our lives do so with their own personal ideals and their own personal sense of reasoning. That means that what a particular justice believes in his or her heart influences the way in which they decide. That’s only natural. While it is difficult to determine what a person feels in their heart, it is important to understand what he or she outwardly feels. One would argue that a potential judicial candidate, much like a politician, can say just about anything that the citizens want to hear. So, how do we go about the task of making the decision as to who is best for the job? It is accomplished by reviewing past decisions that were made when they served as justices of a lower court.

The consequences which arise from the decisions rendered are far-reaching. What is of utmost importance is the realization that The Supreme Court is the highest court in the land. When The Supreme Court rules on a constitutional issue, that judgment is virtually final; its decisions can be altered only by the rarely used procedure of constitutional amendment or by a new ruling of The Supreme Court. That means that once The Supreme Court makes its decision, that’s basically it. There is always the option of appeal, a rare occurrence, but that only means that you are sending the case back to the same justices who ruled upon it in the first place.

That brings us back to the primaries of Indiana, and the idea of legal discrimination as a result of disenfranchisement. That is precisely what The Supreme Court did to the voters of Indiana on April 28, 2008: the institution of legal discrimination. This sort of thing can be avoided. We must pay particularly close attention to who is being offered up as our supreme decision makers. We must review the rulings that that they have handed down before being nominated for The Supreme Court. We must look at their records and ask ourselves the question “Is this a person with whom I want to entrust my life? The question must be asked “How has his or her previous rulings affected me and those about whom I care?” You must ask yourself whether this person is looking out for your well-being or is this person looking to use The Supreme Court as his or her own playground, a playground in which they realize all too well that they are the supreme rulers. Do any particular justices names come to mind?

I will return soon with more information regarding Supreme Discrimination.

This is blackstarr saying “Vive La Renaissance!”

Blackstarr52@gmail.com

copyright © 2008 blackstarr

Renaissance, New Millennium, Scalia, Thomas, discrimination, Indiana, The Supreme Court, Alito, justice, disenfranchisement

Harlem Renaissance: Part 4 of 5

Zora Neale Hurston (1891-1960) was born on January 7, 1891, in Eatonville, Florida. Her family wanted for little and they lived on five acres of land in an eight-room house. Eatonville and her experiences there provided the inspiration for several of her novels, including Dust Tracks on the Road (1939). While she grew up in Florida, Hurston made her fame in New York as a writer in the 1920s and '30s during the Harlem Renaissance. She attended Morgan Academy (now Morgan State University) in Baltimore. There, she completed her high school requirements, then studied at Howard University in Washington, D.C. Her first publication came in May of 1921, which caught the attention of writer and professor, Alain Locke. Impressed with Hurston's storytelling ability, he recommended her work to Opportunity editor, Dr. Charles S. Johnson, who invited Hurston to submit material to Opportunity. She obliged, and later, at Johnson's urging, Zora packed her manuscripts and clothes and headed to New York.

In New York, she met the likes of Langston Hughes and Fannie Hurst. Before long, Hurston became an integral part of Harlem, attending rent parties and hanging out with the other newly well-known personalities such as Carl Van Vechten, Countee Cullen, and Claude McKay. She was seen as clever, witty and out-going. She was a person that people wanted to be around. She soon met Ms Charlotte Osgood Mason, an elderly white woman who employed Hurston at $200 a month to gather folk-tales and history of the African Americans of the south. Unfortunately, the relationship with Mason was severely limiting for Hurston. She could only write on subjects that were pre-approved by Mason. It wasn’t until after she severed her financial ties with Mason that her work began to take off.

One of Zora Neale Hurston's best-known works, Their Eyes Were Watching God, was published in 1937. It was deemed controversial because it didn't fit easily into stereotypes of black stories. She was criticized within the black community for taking funds from whites to support her writing. Hurston answered with an essay entitled "How It Feels to be Colored Me." (1928). She wrote: "I am not tragically colored. There is no great sorrow dammed up in my soul . . . I do not belong to that sobbing school of Negrohood who hold that nature somehow has given them a lowdown dirty deal.... No, I do not weep at the world--I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife."

With new-found friends such as Jean Toomer and Countee Cullen, Hurston became one of the "New Negroes." They, along with Langston Hughes, were the black intellectuals demanding equal billing for African-American culture in American history. Many held Hurston with special admiration. A talented young writer who would celebrate that culture through her art, she is said to have personified the movement and was dubbed the "Queen of the Renaissance." She and Hughes took off in a car, headed for the South, an adventure which would produce the folklore for which she was most well-known, including Mules And Men (1935). In 1931, she and Hughes fell out of favor with each other due to a grave argument over the authorship of a play, Mule Bone: A Comedy of Negro Life (1920), on which they collaborated. It wasn’t produced on Broadway until 1991.

Zora Neale Hurston wrote seven books and more than fifty articles and short stories. She was a playwright, traveler, anthropologist, and folklorist. In 1959 she suffered a stroke and was forced to move into a welfare home. She died penniless on January 20, 1960.

In 1973, Alice Walker made a pilgrimage to Fort Pierce, Florida and placed a tombstone on the site she guessed to be Hurston's unmarked grave. The stone was inscribed: "Zora Neale Hurston, A Genius of the South."

This is blackstarr saying “Vive La Renaissance!”

Blackstarr52@gmail.com

copyright © 2008 blackstarr

Renaissance, New Millennium, Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God, Southern folklore, Queen of the Renaissance ,Langston Hughes, Countee Cullen, Claude McKay, Alice Walker, Jean Toomer, Alain Locke

Up, up, and away!

I can remember very vividly the little store that was across the street from our house while I was in grade school. It was like a corner store, but, it wasn’t quite on the corner. You could buy bread, two-for-a-penny cookies, and just about every little household item that came to mind. The thing that I remember the most (after the cookies, of course) was the Philadelphia Daily News. It sold for three (3) cents. After a while, it went up to a nickel. Before long people were starting to say “When it hits a quarter, I’m not buying it anymore”. I haven’t bought one in ages, but, that’s only because I switched to the Philadelphia Inquirer. I don’t know what the Inquirer sold for back then, but, both papers are now up to about seventy-five (75) cents – and the sales are still flourishing.

I got a little older, and I remember riding on our public transit system, Philadelphia Transportation Company (PTC), which was twenty-five (25) cents to ride. That fare also included a pass, if you wanted one. You could get all around town for less than fifty (50) cents. When the price started to rise, everyone said that “when it reaches a dollar, that’s it – I’ll stop riding it”. PTC – it was such a small name. It turned into the Southeastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority (SEPTA). Its name was not the only thing that grew in size - it now costs two (2) dollars just to get on the bus, then, an additional sixty (60) cents for a transfer, purportedly the highest fare in the nation. It’s the only game in town, outrageously priced, and the ridership is as it was at a quarter a pop.

A few years passed by, and high school came along. That’s when I picked up that disgusting addiction to tobacco. Ah, KOOLS! Now, the neighborhood choice is Newports. Back then, if memory serves me correctly, a pack went for about $1.50. I’m sure that you can imagine what was said when the price started to rise: “When they reach $2.00 a pack, I’m quitting”. I’ve switched to a less rough smoke, now, but, the last time that I looked, Newports were up to about $4.65 a pack. People complain, but, they drop the cash on the counter and walk out with nicotine in hand.

I was proud to be the Valedictorian when I graduated high school, but, the summer following the 11^th grade found me and my best friend forced to attend summer school to make up for our lousy math grade. It wasn’t that the grades were so bad (although I hated and stunk at math). We angered our math teacher, missed an all-important test, and he refused to budge. My friend had his driver’s license, so his dad allowed him to use the car for us to get back and forth to school for the summer. Now listen up, young’uns, because I wouldn’t lie – we pooled my fifty (50) cents and his fifty (50) cents to get gas. We went to school, drove around the neighborhood afterwards, and still had plenty gas to make it home! Everyone said, when the price started to rise, “When it reaches $1.50 a gallon, I’m going to have to find another way around”. Today, when I got gas, the price was a whopping $3.59 a gallon and, I had to wait in line at the pump!

This is where it stops. I’m not sure what the solution is, but, we need one and soon. If anyone has any suggestions, by all means, speak up. For now, I am starting a nationwide boycott – the Great Gas Out. Not to worry, as I don’t mean tomorrow. Here’s what I’d like to do. We had a Black Out last summer, a boycott in which no one (at least African-Americans) was to buy anything on that particular day. The point was to show that we had great economic buying power and that power needs to be recognized. I want to start one in the same spirit, one which is all-inclusive - the entire nation. I’m going to need your help to spread the word. I figure that Saturdays and Sundays are the days when most people can most afford not to gas up, considering the fact that just about everyone has to be to work during the week. I want to shoot for Saturday, June 14, 2008. That should give everyone enough time to spread the word. We will not stop at the pumps on that day and see what effect it has on the pockets of the greedy. If it works, and it should, we’ll do it again on Saturday, June 21, 2008.

Every time you send an e-mail, put a note/reminder at the bottom of it to let everyone know about the boycott. Blog about it – The Great Gas Out. Put a reminder at the bottom of your posts, reminding people of the Great Gas Out. Spread it by word of mouth. Tell your loud-mouthed neighbor. Send a text message to anyone you can. This may not be the best way to go about things, but, it’s a start. Besides, I said that when gas reaches . . .

This is blackstarr saying “Vive La Renaissance!”

Blackstarr52@gmail.com

copyright © 2008 blackstarr

Renaissance, New Millennium, Black Out, Great Gas Out, corporate greed, inflation, Philadelphia Daily News, Philadelphia Inquirer, boycott, June 14 2008, June 21 2008

Father Figure

Kenny kissed me on the cheek before getting out of the car
a gentle kiss
in a space on my face where the cheek ends & the lips begin.
“yo, I’ll call you” drifted lazily over my shoulder as he strode across the street
hipshot & arrogant
his hat cocked back at an angle that said he was large & in charge.

the spot on my face where he’d kissed me tingled with warmth.

I watched him cross the street, a remnant of my big sistah role
other men nodded at him respectfully, & women black & white
furtively flirted & followed him with their eyes.

& I felt surprise:
somewhere along my path of acquisition & ambition
he had become a Man.

echoes of my girlfriends’ voices whispered in my head:
“girl, yo brotha is fine”
even Sharon, & her & Kenny had never gotten along.
I watched him make his way across the street, & my eyes told me the voices spoke true –
he was fine:
tall & thick & long of limb,
his frame graced by Adolfo suits, Pierre Cardin shoes,
his neck caressed by thin expensive gold chains,
exuding confidence & Polo.

a Man had replaced the brother who’d given insulting names to all my boyfriends,
bitten all the fingers & toes off my Barbie dolls, then arranged them in obscene positions
with his G.I. Joes.
surely this black Adonis was not the brother who’d given me a 10-pound bag of Vigaro,
telling me it would make my chest grow.
enraged, I’d told my parents – who did nothing.
only son of my mother, she’d ruffled his hair.
only male issue of my father’s loins, Daddy never even lowered the paper he’d been perusing,
merely mumbled from behind it that
“yo’ brotha got a point, men like wimmen wit big titties.”

they never did grow, but Kenny did.
& with the bestowal of that kiss, it was declared that
the brother of my childhood had been laid to rest,
replaced by this man elected by primogeniture to assume the role of Father,
now that the real Father was dead.

I drove home on auto-pilot,
slowly & in awe, thinking, “Kenny grew up!
Do I have to grow up now, too?”

copyright © 2007 KPMCL